Triangolo Rosa
by novizia
Summary: 1938. The dawn of the Second World War. Reluctant soldier Ludwig Beilschmidt tries to avoid serving in the war by escaping on the first train out of Germany. He ends up in a small Italian town and meets a Florentine artist, Feliciano. After falling in love, Ludwig is conflicted about how to keep his new lover in his life. Historical. GerIta. Rating may change.
1. Nein

**A/N:** As a note, I looked up the most commonly used human name for Germania, and evidently it's "Folkert." So, in case you're wondering why I used it, that's why. He's also very drunk here...

* * *

**Munich, Germany**

_June 23__rd__, 1938_

If there was one thing that Folkert Beilschmidt liked most, it was getting his way. He had grown accustomed to it from all the years he spent indoctrinating his family to believe the concept—"_I am your father. Do as I say,_" he always told his sons. The nonverbal implication went to the tune of "_If you don't, you will regret it_."

This time, Herr Beilschmidt's second son, Ludwig, decided to test his bravery and tell his father, for the first time, _no_.

The word was clipped. He would have yelled it if he had not doubted himself at the last moment. Instead Ludwig sounded cautious, and his father hardly reacted to it, at first. Ludwig hoped that he wouldn't laugh—he hated when his father laughed in his patronizing manner. Thankfully, this time he only stood and stared in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon?" Folkert barked.

His immediate hostility made Ludwig's shoulders tighten, and he swore that his stomach dropped. How could soldiers stand it, he thought, being yelled at all day like this? That was why he had to be more aggressive with his father—a soldier's life was not for him. Ludwig stood to his full height: he was taller than his father, by one or two inches.

"I told you, Father," the young man insisted, "I will not enlist."

Until then, Folkert had merely sounded irritated, but his expression suggested that he thought he could bully Ludwig into doing as he said, as usual. His mouth was curved into a smirk, even—after all, this behavior would give him leave to beat his son with the cane once he bullied him into obeying his command. Insubordination was not tolerated in the Beilschmidt household. This was the first time that rule was challenged. When Ludwig remained steadfast and ended the conversation there, despite how scared he actually was, Folkert's face immediately twisted in anger.

Ludwig had never seen his father that way before. He had seen him angry, of course, but that was normally only after drinking too much beer. This was the first time Ludwig saw the blood rise to his father's face, boiling with rage. The thick veins in his neck threatened to burst. Folkert's hands crumpled into tight fists, and it looked like he was trying very hard not to explode at his son. He was livid—seething with quiet rage. Ludwig sincerely hoped that this anger didn't run in their genes. He never wanted to look so angry and monstrous.

He met his father with a cool gaze.

"I am your _father_, Ludwig," Folkert deadpanned. _Do as I say._

"Yes, I know," replied the son.

"So you will do as I _say_." _If you don't, you will regret it._

Ludwig stared his father down and said nothing, hoping to win the argument without escalating to yelling or violence. Their blue eyes met each other, and not another word was spoken between them for a few moments. Ludwig couldn't tell if he was free to leave, or not. He was going to move to his suitcase leaning against the wall, but his father continued.

"As your father, I am telling you that you must enlist in the army," the words sprayed against Ludwig's cheek, "All of the good German boys do. You want to be a good German boy, don't you, Ludwig?"

Ludwig gripped his hands into fists. He needed to quell his anger if he wanted to make the conversation last as long as possible before his father decided to throw a punch. He took a deep breath through his nose.

"I am twenty years old, Father. I'm no longer a boy," he said as evenly as he could manage. They had had that conversation plenty of times before. "And of course I want to be a good German, but a soldier's life is not for me. You know that."

"That is _not_ your decision to make."

Folkert's hand shoved hard against Ludwig's chest as he said the words. Ludwig fought hard not to become angry. He still had a chance to reel his father back into the conversation. Their argument made Ludwig's older brother Gilbert come running into the main room of the apartment. He looked like he was about to jump in and say something, but Ludwig quickly shot him a look that advised against it. Gilbert shrank back and rested against the doorway.

"You owe your life to the Nazis. If not for our glorious Führer Hitler, you would have been food for the dogs, boy!" Folkert was roaring with rage now. He looked like he was itching to hit his son, but his eyes shone with conflict. Ludwig sighed, unable to keep quiet.

"I know that, Father. You remind me every day. I learned all that the Führer has done for Germany in the Youth League," he insisted gently. "But I did not pack my things only to ask for your permission to leave. I come to you as a man, ready to make my own decision. And until the Führer calls for me by name, I will not enlist."

The silence weighed heavily in the air.

He chose not to tell his father the reasons why he refused. He didn't see the need, as it only would have made him angrier. Unexpectedly, Folkert's eyes watered after Ludwig made his decision known. His lips trembled. A quiet cry built up in his throat. He must have been drinking before their confrontation.

"My boy…" Folkert choked. "My poor boy… What happened to you?"

The man wrapped his arms around his son's shoulders in a distant and non-personal embrace. His body racked with sobs that were muffled by Ludwig's shirt. The young man sighed disappointedly. His father was embarrassing. He was such a wreck after coming back from the Great War.

The once calm and collected soldier had become an alcoholic mess. Years ago, the two of them would have settled the matter reasonably.

Nevertheless, Ludwig patted his father on the back and let him continue.

"Our Führer has done so much to restore glory to Germany," he sobbed. He pounded a tight fist against Ludwig's shoulder. "Don't you respect him? Don't you want to repay his kindness? I thought… I thought I raised such a good, strong German boy…"

"You did, Papa. You did."

For a few moments, they stayed just like that. It was almost reminiscent of the time they used to spend together—embracing, like friends. But now it was so different. It was hard for Ludwig to believe that the old, drunken man in his arms was once the strong German doctor that he used to aspire to become.

Ludwig patted his father's back. He could smell the beer in every cry he made. There was no point in continuing the conversation—that was as far as they were going to go. It seemed far easier to leave his father in this fashion than escaping a fight. He was going to say something else before grabbing his suitcase, but Folkert shoved his son away from him. The force nearly sent the drunken man to the floor, but Ludwig caught his father by the sleeve so that he didn't fall.

"Never call me that again…"

"Father, please, don't—"

"Get out of my house," Folkert growled in a low voice. He pointed at the door. "Get out. Leave me, just like your whorish, race-defiling pig of a mother did."

Ludwig's eyes went wide.

"You're drunk. You don't mean that."

"I never want to see your ignorant, traitorous face in my house again," his father hissed in a low voice. "After all I've done for you… After all I've given up for you… _Get out!_"

Folkert snatched the short glass from the end table, and Ludwig knew better than to stand there. He ducked out of the way. The glass smashed against the wall and burst into tiny pieces on the floor. Ludwig saw Gilbert leap into the room in a flash to restrain their father.

"Dad, stop! That's your _son_," Gilbert yelled. They struggled for a brief moment before Folkert toppled onto the upholstered chair Ludwig made for him years earlier. "He only wants to leave for a year. He's coming back to serve, aren't you, brother?"

Ludwig had already grabbed his jacket and suitcase. He had no intention of disobeying his father and making him more upset than he already was. Folkert told him to get out, so get out, he did. He opened the door and let it slam behind him as he shuffled down the hallway toward the staircase. He only stepped down one flight of stairs when he heard their apartment door swing open again. Gilbert hobbled after him clumsily.

"Ludwig!" called Gilbert. His boots thudded against the wood nearly in time with Ludwig's pounding chest. "Ludwig, stop! Come back!"

Ludwig could not afford to stop, but he found that he struggled to ignore his older brother. He ground his teeth together and halted on the first landing. Gilbert fumbled his way down the stairs.

"Brother, I can't stay," Ludwig muttered. His voice threatened to break. He didn't like disappointing their father—he never had—and he was beginning to regret his decision to leave. But it hardly mattered anymore. "You heard Father. He doesn't want me anymore."

"You know that isn't true," Gilbert replied. He sounded irritated. "Would it kill you to enlist? I have. Once my leg heals, I'm going back to Berlin. We could serve together, Father would love—"

"You don't understand, Gilbert," Ludwig shot back, locking eyes with his older brother. "You have the passion the Führer wants. You are the soldier he is looking for." He ascended a step so he could lean in very close to Gilbert, and whispered, "Besides, you know how I feel about this war the Nazis want."

Gilbert flinched visibly and took a step back. He looked so much like their father in that moment that Ludwig also took a step back. The older of the brothers shook his head.

"If you want to live, brother," he hissed quietly. "You need to change that attitude. You're being selfish." Ludwig frowned when he heard the accusation. Gilbert suddenly sounded like all of the other good German boys—Ludwig hoped his brother was still in there somewhere.

A wave of doubt flooded over him. He was so sure of his decision when he woke up that morning, but his courage had disappeared. He suddenly wondered if he was doing the right thing at all. He quickly thought of a compromise.

"All right, fine," Ludwig grumbled under his breath. "Tell Father I'll be gone for a year. Perhaps less. Tell them I'm spreading the Führer's good will in Austria."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows and laughed dryly, "Finally playing the good Nazi son, are you? That's rich. You know Father won't believe that."

"Perhaps if it's coming from the favorite son, he will," Ludwig replied without hesitation. The smirk suddenly disappeared from Gilbert's face. He opened his mouth to counter, but Ludwig didn't let him, "Also, remind him that I pledged my service to our good Führer already. I promise,"—he paused uncomfortably—"I promise to serve upon my return, unless I am called earlier."

The words died as they left his mouth. That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he also wanted to placate his patriotic family. He knew he would have to serve one way or another, but he thought he would have more time to himself. Gilbert must have read the sadness on his face, and he dropped all hint of sarcasm.

"I'll tell him," he began. "But I can't make any promises, Ludwig. You know how Father is."

That would have to suffice.

Ludwig straightened and looked at Gilbert. Yes, he told himself. He would make such a wonderful soldier. Exactly the son their father wanted. He extended his hand for Gilbert to shake, "Goodbye, brother. Thank you… for everything."

Gilbert ignored his hand and instead pulled Ludwig in for an embrace. Ludwig wished he hadn't—he was already too emotional. Still, he couldn't reject the advance, and he enveloped his older brother in a hug.

"You're making a mistake, Ludwig," the older of the two scoffed. He barely hid a smirk as he pulled away. "But I guess this isn't the first time, right, baby brother?"

"I'm not a baby," Ludwig insisted.

"Yeah, sure. Take care of yourself, all right, dumbass?"

"Same goes for you, Gilbert."

They exchanged nods, and Ludwig finally turned to go. All of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins earlier had dwindled and vanished, and by the time his hand came down on the brass knob of the apartment building's front door, he almost turned around and marched back.

He stepped into the muggy air of Munich and took a deep breath. He always dreamed that his first taste of freedom would feel wonderful, and rewarding. Instead, he looked his last on the place he had called home for twenty years and felt a crippling sense of failure. He wanted so badly to escape the apartment, but his promise of return dampened his spirit.

His father's words echoed in his mind: _You will do as I say._

It was true—Ludwig could never truly stand up to him. The thought churned in his gut. Without dwelling on it further, he hurried down the empty street toward the train station.


	2. The Kids from Bern

All of the Führer's preparations for war left the country's resources terribly unbalanced. Ludwig was not surprised to discover that there were only two domestic trains running through Munich, and only one that left Germany altogether. It was a freight train en route through Austria. It was not built to carry passengers, but when Ludwig noticed a small family sneak into one of the compartments, he did the same.

When none of the conductors or train conductors were in sigh, Ludwig sidled alongside one of the compartments and threw open the hatch. Without hesitating or making too much of a scene, he threw his suitcase into the compartment and pulled the sliding door closed. His eyes narrowed through the darkness. The compartment was filled with boxes—Ludwig knew better than to meddle with them. Instead, he chose a spot in the corner and sat down, with his back against the wall.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He hadn't stopped walking since he left the apartment. More than ever, Ludwig was glad to have a place to sit. His eyes flickered cautiously to the window of the compartment. It was high enough that no one on the ground could see in, but he still felt nervous.

When the compartment door slid open, Ludwig's face blanched and he shrank further into his corner. Thankfully, it was only a pair of teenagers that snuck into the compartment. The young girl turned to Ludwig and squeaked in surprise—the boy hurried to cover her mouth.

"Do you mind if we share your compartment, sir?" the boy whispered. Ludwig said nothing, but motioned for them to sit down. They chose the corner opposite of him.

The squeaky blonde girl eyed Ludwig with curious eyes. Ludwig wasn't sure how old she was, but she was small—she couldn't have been older than 12. She smiled weakly when their eyes met. The boy looked a few years older than she did—perhaps 16, or so. He wanted to talk with them, but he knew it would be foolish to start a conversation before the train started moving.

So they sat in silence for a few minutes, occasionally making eye contact. The engine roared and the train finally lurched forward and began its slow crawl across the tracks. Ludwig pulled his small copy The White Whale out of his suitcase, but it was so dark that he couldn't make out any of the words. He sighed gently and rested his head against the wall.

"Are you German?" asked the young girl.

Ludwig nodded.

"Vash thought you might be Austrian," she giggled. The boy, Vash, shot her an absolutely poisonous glare. He evidently didn't want him to know that. Ludwig frowned in thought.

"Are you Austrian, then?"

"No, we're not," replied the boy, indignantly. "We're only visiting someone there."

"We're from Bern, originally," the young girl piped in. "But we had business in Munich." The boy glared at her again before he shushed her. Ludwig began to wonder if he looked like a Nazi yet, considering the way this boy tried to be so secretive around him.

Ludwig smiled, "Ah. Switzerland, then. You must be city kids."

The girl giggled and nodded her head. They were surely siblings—the way they traveled together and conferred every answer with each other. Ludwig suddenly wondered why they were traveling on their own. They seemed so young to be sneaking on trains like they were.

"Where are your parents?" Ludwig said, worried. "Is it safe for you to be riding a train like this?"

"You're riding it, aren't you?" asked Vash. "Where are _your_ parents?"

It was a fair point, all things considered. But Ludwig didn't care about himself as much as he cared about the well-being of these children. Aside from that, jumping on a train as a 20-year old stowaway was far different than jumping on as children. The girl suddenly piped up again, pointing to herself shyly.

"I'm Lili," she said. Then she motioned to Vash. "This is Vash, my brother."

"Ludwig."

"You're very… quiet, Ludwig. Unlike some other Germans we have met," Vash said. He hugged his knees close to his chest. "Where are you going?"

Ludwig scowled. He realized that he hadn't exactly made those plans yet. He had been so focused on getting out of the house that he never planned his escape route out of Germany. The kids must have mistaken his expression for something else. Lili waved a delicate hand in front of her.

"We aren't spies," she insisted.

"Oh, no," Ludwig began. His stomach churned at the thought of such a thing—kids serving as spies. "It's just that… I don't know where I'm going. Not yet."

"You don't want to stay in Germany, then."

"Not if I can help it."

"What about Austria? We can help you settle in," Lili suggested. "You can meet our uncle there!"

Ludwig chuckled. They were so kind—so innocent. The idea wasn't terrible, but it wasn't far enough away. He crossed his arms over his chest before he continued. He wasn't sure why he opened up so much to them: they were strangers, but he felt like he could tell them anything.

"I need to get far away from this war," Ludwig sighed.

Austria was too close. Switzerland wasn't far enough. He wondered where the train's final destination was, and if _it_ was far enough away from Hitler's looming war. He looked up at the kids again, "Do you know where this train is going?"

Vash tilted his head as he thought, "Somewhere far South? Perhaps Lugano? All I know is that it passes through Salzburg."

Ludwig nodded. He would have to formulate a plan upon arriving in Switzerland. He nearly groaned aloud at the thought of such a long train ride, but when he reminded himself that this was his only option, he kept silent.

* * *

To pass the time, Ludwig played cards and word association games with Vash and Lili. He didn't realize how much Swiss slang he didn't know. He also found out that Vash spoke quite a bit of English, and they practiced that for a while before Lili began to feel left out. After that, they simply asked each other strangely personal questions that none of them hesitated to answer. Lili desperately wanted to know if he was married or if he had a girlfriend. Ludwig didn't have the courage to admit to them that he had little interest in women.

Finally, they were all drowsy enough to sleep.

Hours later, he snapped awake when he heard the compartment door slam open. The cool breeze rustled his hair and he reached for his hat. Vash and Lili were standing at the door. Ludwig was suddenly worried for the two of them—it didn't seem right for them to arrive in Salzburg in such a fashion.

"Sorry to wake you, Ludwig," said Lili, grinning. "This is our stop!"

"Will you be all right?" he asked.

"We're city kids, aren't we? We'll be fine," Vash insisted.

"Good luck to you, Ludwig," Lili called over the rushing wind. "I hope you find what you are looking for, wherever you go."

He nodded to them both, "Good luck to you both. Be careful."

They braced themselves and leapt from the train. Ludwig heard the soft thud of grass, but he hurried to peek out of the door, just to be certain they weren't hurt. He saw them rolling through the tall grass, giggling to each other, and he was immediately relieved. He didn't have younger siblings, but he thought that if he did, they would be like Vash and Lili.

The compartment was already lonely, and they had only been gone for a few minutes.

After a few lonesome minutes passed, he pulled out his book again, now that it was light enough to read.

* * *

From that point onward, it was a guessing game. Sometimes he would hear clues about his location from the train workers as they pulled into any given station. Thankfully, they never opened Ludwig's compartment. They must have passed through Austria and a good part of Switzerland. Ludwig guessed that Bern was the final destination. He planned on jumping out of the train after sleeping for a few more hours, but his plans changed when one of the workers threw the door open at the next stop.

Ludwig awoke with a violent lurch.

"Hey!" the worker shouted. "You aren't supposed to be here! Scram!"

It didn't sound like the worker wanted to start anything, but Ludwig scrambled up and out of the compartment as fast as he could. The worker seemed only irritated, but he did not want to test the man's patience. With his suitcase and jacket firmly in his hands, he leapt from the train cart. His big feet thudded against the ground—it felt like weeks had passed since he walked on pavement. He ran from the freight train without looking back.

Ludwig glanced around. He couldn't tell exactly where he was by looking at it, but he shortly realized that no one was speaking German. He craned his neck to listen in on a nearby conversation, but they were speaking too quickly. Ludwig swallowed hard and tried not to panic. He knew that Switzerland wasn't entirely filled with German speakers. Other than his native language, he only spoke limited French and English. His eyes darted frantically around the station. Without thinking, he grabbed the arm of the first person he could.

"_Che cosa?"_ the man demanded.

Ludwig furrowed his eyebrows: _Italian._

"Excuse me," he began slowly, in choppy English, "What city is this?"

The man raised a thick, suspicious eyebrow. Then he shook his head adamantly—he did not understand the question. Ludwig sighed through his nose. This did not bode well for his time in this new place. He tried again in French, to little avail. Not knowing what else to do, he began to list the cities he supposed he could be in.

"Ach… Lugano? Bellinoza?" Ludwig guessed.

At last, the man understood.

"No, no," he said, laughing. "Milano."

Ludwig tried to hide his shock, "Milano? Ach… Italia?" He knew that the train must have traveled quite a distance, but he was not planning on escaping to Italy. The man clapped him on the shoulder.

"_Benvenuti,"_ he laughed as he departed. Sarcasm dripped from his voice—Ludwig could understand that, at least. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and mulled over his options in the middle of the busy train station.

He supposed his best option was to find a train that would return him to a predominantly German city. However, he had limited funds, and Italy seemed short on train transit, like his home country. His hopes sank. As much as he did not want to return home, it looked like the most practical decision. He regretted ever leaving Munich to begin with.

Just as he sat down on his suitcase to think it all over, a robust woman approached him. She bent over and tapped her thick fingers against his arm to grab his attention. It worked. Ludwig looked up abashedly.

"Are you looking for work?" she asked, in English.

He shrugged.

"Take that train," the woman said. She explained further, trying to pull more English together. "Eh... Is going to Genova, yes? Take that one. Milano is no good for you."

"I have little money, madam."

She waved her hand. "The men, they never check the ticket. Go now, before it leaves." Ludwig had already gotten up. He tipped his hat and thanked the woman. She arrived at just the right time—he wondered if she was a sign, from above. Genova was even further South than Milano, but he did not have much to lose.

"One more train," Ludwig muttered. "Just one more…"


	3. The Artist

**A/N:** _Finalmente!_ The Italian we've been waiting for is here. c: Please enjoy Chapter 3- reviews are read, loved, and appreciated! (On a random note, the new season of HBO's _Boardwalk Empire_ premieres tonight. I wanted to get this chapter to you all before I disappear for the evening, haha.)

* * *

By the time the train rolled to a stop outside of Genova, the sun was beginning to set, and Ludwig had slept for a few more hours during the ride. His meeting with Vash and Lili seemed so long ago, and the conversation with his father even more distant than that. More than anything else, he wanted to eat something and travel on foot. He knew a car was too much to hope for.

The station he arrived at was significantly less crowded than the one in Milano. At last, Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled his jacket on and then his hat. A small, faded sign outside of the station pointed him in the right direction.

_Cinque Terre._

Ludwig had heard of the place, of course. It was supposedly one of the gems of the Italian peninsula. He never thought of it as a place looking for workers. He was not entirely sure if anyone would hire him there. Luckily, he had a very long stretch of dirt road to walk on as he practiced what he was going to say to potential employees, as well as what he would write to Gilbert if he failed at finding a job.

His feet dragged. He did not want to think about that possibility.

The sound of wheels on the road roused him from his thoughts. A few bike riders had passed him earlier, but none had slowed down to talk to him. Ludwig peeked shyly out from beneath the brim of his cap.

It was a young, smiling man.

He said something in Italian, but Ludwig pursed his lips shut and gently shook his head. He desperately wished that he knew more of the language—this man seemed very kind. The newcomer laughed.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes, a little."

"Good!" said the other man. "We can talk this way, then."

Ludwig nodded firmly. The man was so open and friendly. He began to wonder if all Italians acted this way. Surely not all, he told himself grimly. Despite his thoughts, the man riding next to him would prove him wrong, it seemed. He smiled at Ludwig before jumping off of his bicycle in favor of walking it alongside him.

"I have a small, strange request," the man admitted with a chuckle. Ludwig scowled and looked at him again, stopping in his tracks. "Could I sketch you, _signore_?"

_Sketch?_ Ludwig hadn't heard the word before. His confusion must have been evident, as the Italian quickly fished for something in his bag.

"I'm an artist," he explained, holding a stick of what looked like charcoal. He mimed out an animated drawing action on his palm. "And I like to sketch people who visit the city!"

Ludwig blinked confusedly before slowly extending his palm. The artist laughed heartily, "No, no, _signore_, I have paper!"

"But I have no money to give you," Ludwig said sternly. "For the drawing."

The Italian man snorted at that, "If I wanted money, I would have asked for it, I promise. No, I only want practice, and I've drawn very few foreigners recently."

Ludwig decided to humor the man. He had nothing waiting for him in Cinque Terre, anyway. The two men sat down on the edge of the dirt road. Ludwig sighed audibly. His feet ached from walking so far. He felt a headache slowly setting in. He could barely keep his eyes open. Honestly, he didn't think he would be a very good model for the other man.

He sat up, at first, not knowing how to properly sit for a portrait sketch.

"Please, sit comfortably," the Italian insisted. "I promise I'll work fast!" Ludwig crossed his legs and leaned back on his hands. "Yes, just like that! Oh, except for one thing…"

The artist leaned forward and gently pulled the hat off of his head, "There!"

Ludwig instinctively reached up and smoothed down his cropped, blonde hair. He was so used to looking presentable, tidy… militarized. If his appearance was going to be drawn into immortality, he told himself that he needed to look somewhat put together, even if he didn't feel that way. The Italian man chuckled, "Hey, no cheating! I want to sketch you as you are. Messy hair, too!"

The man worked for the first few minutes in complete silence. Ludwig didn't mind. He was mesmerized by the man's swift wrist flicks and his sweeping strokes as he dragged the charcoal across the paper. It was relaxing—other than the distant sound of the ocean, the faraway train whistle, and the wind in the trees, the only sounds came from the artist's sketchbook.

The artist must not have liked it, for he began to talk again as he sketched. Ludwig noticed him trying to make eye contact, and he diverted his gaze shyly.

"Hm," the other man said. "You look… French?"

Ludwig shook his head.

"German?"

The Italian man grinned when Ludwig answered his guess with a curt nod. He went on with earnest, "I thought so! You are too tall to be anything else. What is your name?"

Silence answered the question. Ludwig trusted the talkative man well enough; his shyness kept him quiet now. The other man seemed to sense it in him, and he waited patiently for an answer. He sketched quietly a little while longer before Ludwig briefly met his gaze, "My name is Ludwig."

"Lud-wig," the other man pronounced slowly. Then he repeated it, ensuring that he said it correctly. His name had never sounded so foreign to him before, but he had only ever heard German-speakers say it. The other man smiled again as he said it once more, "Ludwig. It is nice to meet you! I'm Feliciano."

Ludwig met the man's eyes again. He worked out each syllable in his head before attempting to pronounce it, "Feliciano?"

The man seemed delighted at his attempt, "Yes, that's right!"

Feliciano's good mood was contagious. Of course, Ludwig was still tired, hungry, and naturally introverted—he wanted to return the man's smile, but he couldn't find it in himself to do so. He was worried that his sullen demeanor and quiet behavior would scare Feliciano off, but he was relieved when the man seemed more than ready to carry most of the conversation.

He simply nodded or gave one-word responses to answer most of Feliciano's questions, and after a few minutes, he simply carried on about the town they were both walking toward. ("A group of villages, really," Feliciano made sure to explain before added, enthusiastically, "I live in Vernazza, the prettiest one!") Inevitably, he resumed asking more questions.

"So, Ludwig, why are you here in Cinque Terre?"

"Work, perhaps."

"You look so tired, friend," Feliciano said. He even looked at his sketch sadly as he said it. "Where did you board the train?"

"Milano."

"But before _that_," continued the other man, chuckling. "Did you ride from Switzerland?"

"Ah, no," Ludwig said before correcting himself, "Munich."

"Munich?" the other man pressed worriedly. His eyebrows knit in concern and he quickly looked him over. He seemed to have completely forgotten about the drawing in that moment. "_Dio mio_, you poor man! Are you all right? It must have been such a long train ride… Have you eaten? You must be starved!"

Ludwig frowned in confusion. He was a little hungry, yes, but it was nothing to be worried over. He waved his hand, "Ah, no, I'm fine." He wasn't, but he didn't like to be fussed over. Feliciano wasn't about to stop there, evidently.

"Do you have friends here? Where will you stay?"

"I don't know yet."

Feliciano frowned and stared at the sketch in his hands. Ludwig stared at the dirt path ahead of them—he hadn't even thought about how long it was going to take for him to walk there. He supposed that it was long enough, considering that the other man had opted for a bicycle. Suddenly, Feliciano looked up at him again and flashed him a big grin.

"I have a small place," Feliciano explained. He laughed nervously as he continued, "It isn't fancy… But if it would help, you can stay there for a night while you work things out. It would be terrible of me to send you by yourself."

Ludwig scowled, embarrassed. "No," he insisted. "I would be a nuisance to you. I couldn't. But… thank you for your offer, Feliciano."

"No one is a nuisance to me," Feliciano replied with an amused smile. He was surely exaggerating, but a part of Ludwig believed it to be true. "And you said yourself that you have no money, so the hotel is no option…Fisherman Tonio might take you in, but he will be at dinner at this hour—and _no one_ bothers Tonio for anything when he is at dinner…"

"Feliciano."

He said the man's name a little more harshly than he wanted, so he tried to start over.

"Thank you, but I have little to give you in return," Ludwig said. "It wouldn't be right."

Feliciano had already tucked his sketchbook into his bag when he looked up, smiling again. "Ludwig. If I wanted something from you, I would have asked for it," he explained. Then he pointed to his bag. "And I have this drawing, remember? Come on, we'll go together!"

Ludwig watched him stand up and brush his pants off before leaning over to pick up his bicycle. He couldn't believe the hospitality this man—this stranger—was offering him. If the woman he had met at the Milano train station was a sign that he was going in the right direction, then surely this man was something even greater—an angel, perhaps. He reached for his discarded cap and brushed the dirt off before putting it back on his head. Ludwig looked up, and his eyes met Feliciano's, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

Feliciano extended a hand to help him up with, "Can you ride?"

"A bicycle? Yes," replied Ludwig, standing to his feet.

"Good! Then you'll drive, and I'll ride."

Ludwig raised his eyebrows. He truly did mean "go together." His eyes darted to the bike, and he wondered if it could support them both. They would look so childish. When he paused to think about it, Feliciano shrugged a shoulder, before joking, "Unless you would rather walk, of course!"

No, that was not an option.

"Where will you ride?"

"On the back," Feliciano pointed to the rear wheels, where there was space for him to place his feet. "I'll stand here and hold onto your shoulders."

"Like children…" Ludwig commented softly, his face flushing.

"You are the one who didn't bring a bicycle, _tonto_!" the other laughed. "And sometimes acting like children is fun, no?"

Ludwig pulled his jacket on and reluctantly swung his leg over the bike seat. Feliciano leaned over and picked up the small suitcase before tossing it into the basket in front. He jumped onto the bike and placed his hands on each of Ludwig's shoulders. He reached over Ludwig's shoulder and pointed down the dirt path.

"Stay on this path until I tell you."

"All right," Ludwig stammered as he pedaled gently.

He was scared that Feliciano might have fallen off of the bike if he pedaled too quickly, so he started off slowly. After a few yards, he realized that they weren't moving fast enough, and they began to lose balance on the bike. Feliciano laughed and patted him on his shoulders when they came to another stop.

"I'm still here, Ludwig!" he chuckled. "You have to go fast, or else we'll fall!"

He didn't need to be told twice. Ludwig pulled the brim of his hat down and tried again after he was certain that Feliciano would not fall. After a rocky start, the wheels cruised smoothly over the old, dirt path. They were the only ones on the road, as far as he could tell.

He kept his eyes fixed on the road as they barreled toward the sunset. He could smell the salt of the ocean already—Ludwig had never been so close to the seashore. His feet began to pedal faster. Feliciano sang some Italian tune, softly, to himself as they rode along. He had a nice voice, Ludwig thought.

"Feliciano," he said.

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure… how to thank you," Ludwig continued. He would have to think of a way to repay the man for his kindness.

Feliciano patted his shoulder, _"Grazie!"_

"Pardon?"

"That's how to say 'thank you,' in Italian," he explained with a playful laugh. "You said you didn't know how to thank me, yes? That's how!"

Ludwig smirked amusedly and shook his head as the man resumed his tune from earlier.

_Grazie, Feliciano._


	4. A Good German

**A/N:** Oh my goodness, I'm sorry for the wait! School and work have been crazy busy. I've also been in a bit of a rut plotting out this story, but I think I'm back on track! Ah, Feliciano is such a little flirt, isn't he? Hopefully he can teach Ludwig how to flirt soon, haha!

* * *

When the two men finally arrived in Vernazza, the sun had finally tucked itself away. The last golden hues of the sun kissed the Western faces of the buildings furthest from the shore. Ludwig gasped softly as he rode along the crest of the hill overlooking the village. He stopped the bike so that he could have a better look at it. He had nearly forgotten that he still had a passenger riding with him.

"Ludwig?" Feliciano said. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing…" Ludwig breathed. "Vernazza, it's..."

Vernazza was truly like a village from the fairytales Ludwig grew up listening to. The buildings were small and crammed together—the varying colors were so bright he could almost hear them. Each apartment looked so alive and bustling with life. Just by looking for a few moments, he could tell that warm, friendly people lived in Vernazza: if nothing else, he knew they must have all known each other. The village was too small for them not to.

As Ludwig was about to continue speaking, a breeze blew in from the coastline. It smelled like salt, fish, and a scent he had never smelled before. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. It was then that Ludwig realized he was _free_—free from his father, free from the war, and free from living a life he had never had any intention of leading.

This was his new home, for a time.

Feliciano must have seen his face.

"You like my village?" he laughed. Then he patted Ludwig on the shoulders. "I like it, too. Bella Vernazza!"

"It must be so… peaceful, living here."

"Yes, very different from the city!"

Ludwig didn't want to tear his eyes away from the view. He reluctantly pushed off from the ground and began pedaling the bike down the hill. As they sped through the winding paths of the inner village, they were met with curious stares and shy hand waves. One man rushed to the doorway and waved his arm to him.

"_Mangiamo stanotte la cena, Feliciano? Portate il vostro amico!"_

"_Siamo occupati! A domani?"_ Feliciano called back to the man. Then he leaned forward and pointed to the last apartment on the block. "That is my place, there. The red one!"

Ludwig blushed—the other man's words fluttered against the back of his neck. He drove the bicycle in front of the apartment and let Feliciano jump off. He swung his leg over and opened his mouth to ask a question, but the other man answered it before he could say anything.

"I will take the bike," Feliciano said with a smile. "Take your things inside, to the second floor—it isn't locked!" Ludwig watched the other man walk the bicycle behind the apartment, and he took the opportunity to do as the man said. He picked up his suitcase and walked through the old, creaky door.

The stairs must have been carved from very nice, but old, wood. Each one creaked as Ludwig ascended—not unlike his own apartment in Munich. This apartment, however, looked like it was under construction. He smelled paint, and he saw a few stray hammers and nails on a table at the top of the stairs. Whoever was working on the apartment was an amateur. He shuffled past the carpenter's supplies and opened the door to Feliciano's apartment.

If he hadn't already known, he would have guessed that the man who lived there was an artist.

It was incredibly messy. He wasn't sure how the man could find anything in the apartment—it looked like everything was buried beneath something else. His eyes hastily scanned the floor and the tables: his first instinct was to organize everything. If Ludwig had lived in such a fashion back home, his father would have beaten him, for sure. Though he was initially shocked that Feliciano could live in such scattered chaos, he softened as he inspected everything further.

The small window was open, and the warm, evening breeze blew through the pane. A clothesline was strewn across the small balcony that was accessible via a door in the back. The old, wooden floor creaked underneath Ludwig's heavy boots as he moved around to inspect the place.

An array of papers was on the floor. He stepped between them so he didn't damage anything. Ludwig supposed that they were abandoned sketches. He bent down and lifted one, just to be sure.

His cheeks burned red—the sketch was of a naked, reclining woman.

Ludwig dropped the thing and was suddenly ashamed that he looked at it to begin with. He turned his attentions to the small kitchen in a corner of the studio. It was surprisingly organized, compared to the rest of the apartment. He thought he spotted dust on the countertop, and he wondered if it had been used recently.

It was then that he noticed the easel tucked away in the corner by the back window. The painting was unfinished, but Ludwig could see the facial features of a man—an attractive man, at that. Perhaps most noticeable, however, was the small knife handle sticking out of the canvas. There were traces of other knife punctures in the canvas. Ludwig frowned: _what a shame,_ he thought.

At last, Feliciano appeared at the doorway and laughed nervously. Ludwig awkwardly shuffled on his feet and turned around.

"I said it wasn't much, right?" he chuckled. Then he waved his arms, gesturing toward the floor. "Sorry for the mess, I was going to clean this all up a week ago…"

"Oh, no, it's fine," Ludwig stammered. "Really."

When Feliciano quickly bent down to scoop up the papers off of the floor, Ludwig hesitated before reaching down to help him. He was met with a warm smile, and his cheeks tinged pink. Feliciano smiled so often. Perhaps too often.

"Is it true that all Germans are clean?" Feliciano asked playfully.

Ludwig scowled. "Perhaps not all," he said. "But I think I am."

The other man grinned in reply. Ludwig frowned—was everything he said so amusing?

"That's what I thought," said Feliciano. He gathered the papers in his arms and set them in a messy stack on top of one of the shelves of a nearby bookcase. Then he waved a hand toward the dining room table (if a corner of the studio could have been considered a "dining room") and shuffled to the stovetop. He took a quick look at it and muttered something under his breath—_porca puttana_—and he began to clean it hastily.

"You must be hungry, Ludwig! You sit there while I cook supper, all right? It will only take a minute," the Italian man sang. Then he added, "And before you ask—no, not all Italians are good cooks… But I like to think that I am."

* * *

Ludwig had never heard a man talk so much in his entire life.

Feliciano seemed to have an entertaining story for everything. Sometimes he would reply to one of his own stories with another one of his own, and he never told the same story twice. Ludwig only had to ask a question about the man, and he would reply with some colorful tale from his past. At first, Ludwig wondered if they were all true, but the animated fashion in which Feliciano regaled them suggested that he wasn't crafting any of them.

While Feliciano cooked, Ludwig asked all sorts of questions—about Italy, Vernazza, and about Feliciano himself. He learned that the man was originally from Florence, but he had been living apart from his family for a few years. Evidently, his family owned the apartment he was living in, but he was supposed to be fixing it up. ("Papa hired the wrong brother for this, let me tell you," Feliciano sighed as he dished up two plates of pasta.)

He also learned that Feliciano didn't like to be away from his family, which currently consisted of his father and his older brother. ("Lovino is really something else," Feliciano continuously insisted. "He swears more than he breathes!") His mother was dead, and the familiar pain that hit Ludwig in the chest like a brick compelled him to quickly divert the subject, but Feliciano was one step ahead of him.

"That's why I paint and draw, of course," he explained, taking a swig of wine. "Papa tells me that Mamma was very good at it."

Ludwig wanted to ask about the canvas in the corner that had been stabbed repeatedly, but since Feliciano didn't mention it, he decided it was not his place.

By the time they finished the meal, Ludwig felt like he knew more about Feliciano than he ought to have.

"But we've talked for so long about me," Feliciano began, smiling again. He poured himself another glass of wine. "I know little about you, Ludwig! Except that you are from Munich and you are a clean German."

Ludwig froze. Where was he supposed to start?

No one had asked him something like that before.

"Ach… But I am not interesting," he said in an attempt to deflect the attention. He felt his ears grow warm. Ludwig cleared his throat and met the eager amber eyes of the man sitting opposite of him. "I don't have so many stories to tell."

"So serious! Here, let me help you," Feliciano replied. He leaned back in his chair. "Do you have family?"

"My father and my older brother."

"Just like me!" the other man remarked joyously, like it was the best news he received all day. Ludwig was thankful that they didn't have to discuss his mother. "What are they like? What do they do?"

"They are army men."

"… And you don't want to be one."

Ludwig finally met the other man's eyes squarely. Feliciano said it like it was a well-known fact, but he didn't recall discussing the matter with him. He fished for the right words, but it all boiled down to a simple, embarrassed response.

"N-No," he said. "I don't."

He hadn't felt like a coward until then.

"That's not a bad thing, Ludwig. Many men don't wish to be soldiers," Feliciano reasoned.

"But the Fuhrer, he—" Ludwig stopped himself, trying to find the right words to explain himself with. In the following moment, he could have sworn that he became his father for a few moments. "All of the _good_ Germans want to fight. My father… He always told me that."

Feliciano frowned upon hearing his answer. Then, without a word, he leaned down and rifled through his bag at his feet. Within seconds, he pulled out a large sheet of sketch paper and cleared off the table with his free hand before setting it down on top of the wood.

Ludwig nearly gasped out loud when he saw it.

The man in the sketch looked exhausted, with dark bags as large as half-coins underneath his tired eyes. His expression was blank—he looked like he had nothing to live for. He was at the end of the line. He was out of options. His eyebrows were knit in an expression of stress and worry. The man was young, but he looked at least five years older than he actually was.

It was Ludwig. It was the sketch that Feliciano had drawn after they met on the road.

"You want to know what I think?" Feliciano asked, finally breaking the silence.

Ludwig looked up. He still struggled with the fact that the picture was of him.

"I think this man looks like a good son," the other man went on. He smiled as he began pointing out all of the characteristics on the paper. He pointed to the forehead first, just above the eyebrows. "Look at these worry lines—this man wants to be the best that he can be for everyone. I think he stays up late thinking about it. And look here," he pointed to the eyes, "He looks like one of those philosophers, no? He looks like he's searching for something…"

Feliciano tilted his head and rested his chin on his fist.

"I don't know, soldier or not, he looks like a good German to _me_," he said with one of his warm smiles. "Maybe that's why I stopped him on the road." His glowing optimism made Ludwig look away in embarrassment.

"Maybe," he said quietly. Then, before he forgot, he added, "Thank you for the meal."

"That? Oh, that was nothing," the other man laughed as he stacked the dishes on the countertop. "You should see what Tonio can do! Maybe I'll introduce you in the morning. I need to buy more wood for the apartment, and his shop is on the way."

Ludwig nodded his head in gratitude. He had yet to think of a way to repay the man for all of his kindness. He wasn't sure what he would have done had he not met Feliciano on the road into Cinque Terre. His eyes wandered to the building supplies in the hallway, and he thought about the wood that Feliciano needed for the repairs.

He had an idea.

"Feliciano," he said. "Back home… I worked as a carpenter."

The other man's eyes lit up. He must have known where this was going. "Really?"

"If you would like, I could help you fix the apartment," Ludwig continued shyly. He had done enough work on his father's place in Munich to know that working on Feliciano's apartment would be easy. "It isn't much, but since you let me stay tonight…"

"Tonight?" Feliciano blurted. "You can stay as long as you like if you can help me fix this place! See, I work during the day, so I can only work on the apartment during the evenings. And to be honest, I get a little… lazy."

_I never would have guessed, _Ludwig thought.

"_Grazie dio_, of all the Germans I could have met, I met one who can build!" Feliciano looked absolutely ecstatic. "Then I will take you to buy the wood tomorrow, yes? And I'll try to find a way to pay you…"

"You don't have to pay me."

"Oh, good, because I don't have money!" the other man laughed. "But don't worry, I can feed you, and you can have a spot on the sofa."

Feliciano ran his hands through his hair and scurried to a dresser in the corner and retrieved a few blankets. He proffered them to Ludwig. "We can talk more in the morning—you must be very tired, amico."

He was. He didn't realize it until Feliciano had mentioned it.

"Is there anything else you need for tonight?"

"Ah, no," Ludwig said with a small smile. "This is fine. Grazie."

Feliciano beamed, and as he left for another room, he added, "Your Italian is better already!"

After the other man left, Ludwig realized how quiet the place was—not only the apartment, but Vernazza. The window was still open, but he couldn't hear much aside from the sounds of the ocean beating against the shore. There were lingering sounds of people finishing up supper, but their quiet chatter was easily drowned out by the ocean.

He shrugged out of his jacket and pants and folded them neatly on the seat of a nearby chair. The blankets that Feliciano found for him were thicker than they looked, but Ludwig guessed that he wouldn't need them. Vernazza was warm—much warmer than Munich. It would take a few days for him to get used to the change.

Ludwig wondered what Gilbert was doing. Was he worried? Surely not, he thought. He was probably pouring another round of liquor for their father. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else.

The first image in his mind was the man on the canvas.

Feliciano was such a relaxed and easy-going guy—what on earth could have made him destroy a work of art like that? Ludwig was sure that the man had high standards of his own art, and he probably destroyed it in a fit of disappointment.

Perhaps it was the hidden romantic in him, but Ludwig couldn't help but think that Feliciano knew the man on the canvas. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he thought that the man might have been a past lover.

_For heaven's sake, be sensible, Ludwig,_ he thought angrily, before dozing off.

That night, he dreamt of Feliciano's curly-haired man on the canvas.


End file.
